


The Science of Apiology

by DestielsDestiny



Series: The Sons of Eve [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2018, Abuse, Alistair warning, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Attempt, BAMF Everybody, Bamf and Protective Cain, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, But seriously this as actually mostly fluff, Cage Fights, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Raised Separately, Discrimination, Empathy, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fratricide, Grief/Mourning, Honey, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage, Kid Fic, Little Black Dress, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Multi, Murder, Polyamory, Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Recovery, Romance, Sad, Self-Harm, Sentinel Cain, Sentinel/Guide, Seriously heed the tags please, Spirit Animals, Talking dragons, That act more like daemons to be honest, Torture, Zoned Sentinels, but DO heed the warnings, guide dean, not any of the main characters, please!, this is rather dark in many places, very obliquely implied, well one anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-07-02 18:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Dean's head snaps back, blood spurting hot and metallic across his tongue. In the blurred moment before he hits the floor, a pair of blue eyes sear into his brain. For through the haze, through the zone and the confusion and despair, there is something else there. Something he would almost call protective.In a world where there are still ghosts aplenty, but also sentinels and guides, Dean manifests too early, and meets Cain almost too late.In which there is angst, but also fluff and kid fic and kisses that leave the lingering sweetness of honey on Dean’s lips.





	1. Fireweed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July 2018 Little Black Dress Challenge on Rough Trade. There will be a direct sequel to this story posted at some point. Please, please head the warnings, as this story deals with mature and sometimes graphic content. Also, a general warning for Alistair.  
> Chapter titles are all types of honey. Fireweed has a smooth, velvety, delicate flavour.  
> Apiology is the science of beekeeping.

This fight is different.

Dean knows it from the moment the cage’s heavy wire door clangs shut on his back, Alistair’s broad smirk gazing down on him from the center box above his head, because of fucking course Alistair has a cage fighting arena designed more like an opera house than an actual, authentic fighting den.

Of frikking course.

There’s lasciviousness in that smirk, just as there always is, Dean’s naked torso a mass of badly healed scars and violent purple bruises. It’s his third fight of the evening. The last two had been routine, brutal but not absurd with it.

There had been enough blood to satisfy the crowd. Seven years of doing this, Dean knows how to please the mob surrounding the cage on all sides, hungry eyes and panting mouths practically pressing through the wire.

There’s malevolence. But then, the man’s always been nastier than most poltergeists, so nothing new there. There’s creepiness. But, well, Dean’s been doing this for long enough that he’s grown a good five inches in the interim, so how was this ever _not_ going to be creepy?

There’s triumph, but, well, yeah, course there is. Cause that height thing? That’s not just because Alistair likes them disgustingly-not to mention illegally-young. That’s also because of John Winchester and his-

Dean cuts the thought off with a growl, forcing his aching hand to curl into a parody of a fist around the wrapping Alistair’s pet demoness Lilith had forced on over split and swollen knuckles after his last round. He’s pretty sure sand paper is the most innocuous ingredient contained in the material.

And oh yeah, had he mentioned that the object of this entire cluster fuck was for Dean to _lose_? Every damn time. Preferably in as spectacular and bloody a fashion as possible.

Dean finished forming the fist and raised it in a parody of a victory punch, the roar of the crowd growing from eager to rhapsodic. Just before he dropped his arm, Dean swivelled on the balls of his feet to face the center box.

And looking Alistair dead in the eye, he extended the middle finger of his right hand, the broken digit crooked but unmistakable in the mood-appropriate, red hued lighting. 

The bastard just smirked, legs splayed around Lilith’s immaculately turned out body, characteristic leer stretching from his yellowed teeth to his glittering eyes.

Eyes that practically glowed with that something, that something that was somehow new, even after seven years worth of Friday and Saturday nights in the ring. That something that had so unsettled Dean. Something almost…excited.

Dean kept his face blank, locked his throat to prevent the nervous swallow from betraying him.

Yeah, he was officially fucked.  
00

His third opponent of the evening had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. As a hard and fast rule, Dean tried not to look them in the eyes, not anymore. Not for a long time now.

Because just as it was his job to lose, it was theirs to win.

And winning meant only one thing in this world of wire and jeers, where everyone’s heart beat at Alistair’s pleasure.

There were few things more abhorrent in the world than sentinels being forced to fight guides. Being forced to attack and beat and injure and mutilate that which they were biologically hard-wired to always, always protect above all else.

Dean tries hard to _not_ think about the blank space that surrounds Alistair, like zero gravity and the vacuum of space all at once. The space where something should be.

But any sympathy he might have ever felt died along with his first opponent, all those years ago. The sentinel’s blood hot and thick on his face, the anguished light leaving their eyes mere moments after they ripped their own throat out at the horror of what they’d just done.

Of what they’d just done to Dean.

It was the man’s spirit animal that had truly done it though, in the end, the primal scream of the little chickadee as it vanished in a puff of sparkling feathers, that dug the guilt hard into Dean’s heart, a well deep and wide and endless, made deeper and wider and more endless with each passing year.

So yeah, Dean tried very, very hard not to look them in the eyes anymore.

But from the first moment the gate clangs shut behind his opponent’s back, Dean feels his eyes lift almost of their own accord. Feels something in his chest twist and give, in a way it never has before, even when he was fourteen and newly online, emoting all over the damn room and driving John, even psi-null and proudly baseline as he was, clear out of the room in pain.

Dean isn’t sure if his dad was afraid of guides before he came online, not for certain. And even that little bit of uncertainty has always made it hard to blame the man for any of what came after. At least, it made it hard until Adam.

At the thought of his little brother, Dean clenched his hands and forced his eyes back down. _For Adam, for Adam._ The familiar mantra pulsed through his skull. Not for Alistair, not for John, not even for himself. _For Adam._ He could do this. _For Adam._

Except, his eyes caught something as they lowered. Something not unlike Alistair’s negative space. But not like it either, not exactly.

Dean jerked his chin up, and was blindsided by fierce blue eyes in a wild, fierce countenance. The face, framed by a mane of gorgeous black hair shot through with grey, was weathered and world-weary, but it was the eyes that really caught his attention.

They seemed to bore into his soul, those eyes. They were the eyes of an extremely powerful sentinel. An extremely gorgeous, extremely powerful sentinel.

One–Dean cast about once more to double check–, that was without a spirit guide.

And zoned as fuck. Great, just perfect.

Dean felt bile rise in his throat, even as he scoffed at his own visceral reaction to this new display of cruelty and basic inhumanity courtesy of dear, old Alistair.

Part of him couldn’t believe what he did next, actually _turning his back_ on a zoned, quite possibly feral sentinel to shout up at Alistair.

“No! Do you hear me you son-of-a-bitch?! I’m not doing this! I’m not playing your sick game this time! Not like this!” Dean felt his heart thump wildly at his own boldness, his own stupidity. He knew Alistair could hear him, even over the furious roars and rattles of the crowd. The man was the most powerful sentinel Dean had ever encountered.

Well, until now apparently, because the kind of self-control this guy was exhibiting at full-zone simply by remaining on his side of the ring, silent and watchful? Dean had never seen the like, not in literally _thousands_ of fights.

Alistair’s voice, sickly sweet and unnaturally high, raised the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck, just it always did, licking at his ears like an awful parody of a caress, “Remember why you’re doing this Dean.”

Dean swallowed, turning back to face his opponent. _Remember why you’re doing this Dean._ The last thing his father ever said to him, before he went off with Alistair and never came back again.

Alistair was evidently enjoying himself far too much to take his compliance at those words for granted however, for at that moment an empathic wave hit the cage, rage and pain and grief slamming into Dean like a tsunami. Unfortunately, it also hit the crowd as well.

Lilith had never been the most careful of guides, for all her purported power. Personally, Dean was pretty sure she just didn’t care enough to be careful.

His opponent shook his head, almost as if he was trying to clear it, the move reminding Dean oddly of a lion.

Then the sound of splintering metal hit Dean’s ears, as the crowd finally pushed through the barriers to his left.

Looks like Alistair was going to get that blood bath he wanted after all.

Dean pivoted on his feet, ready to meet the onslaught, only for something to slam into his shoulder, knocking him down and sideways, towards the concrete barriers at the bottom of the ring. Hands grabbed out at him, whether guards or watchers it was hard to tell, shouts and waves of emotion crashing in and around his senses, obscuring everything.

Dean had nearly forgotten about his opponent in the melee, too focused on protecting his head and trying to survive to worry about him, until a growl ripped through the air from just above him.

A looming shape lunged at several men advancing on Dean–guards, his brain inventoried idily, if their slightly nicer level of grunge clothing was anything to judge by, guess Alistair didn’t want his prize pig _too_ badly damaged–and he realized with a start that it was the sentinel, still completely zoned, still oddly shut off empathically from what little Dean could tell, what little he could ever tell. But also undeniably standing between him and the throng.

Dean blinked in shock, and something must have leaked through his almost non-existent shields, because the sentinel’s head swung in his direction, even as the crowd surged and the guards finally managed to slip in behind them.

Dean's head snapped back, blood spurting hot and metallic across his tongue as Lilith’s sickly-sweet scent filled the air, pressing on his brain like it was an orange to be squeezed.

 

In the blurred moment before he hit the floor, a pair of blue eyes seared into his brain. For through the haze, through the zone and the confusion and despair, there is something else there.

 

Something he would almost call protective.

 

00

_A shape padded towards Dean. Dark yet smoky, almost glowing, even obscured by shadow as it was. Yet for all that, strangely familiar._

_His hand, oddly free of blood, stretched out towards the shape. The creature. He had a faint impression of a massive head, long legs and…a tail?_

_Dean blinked, as a rough tongue reached out and lapped at his hair, wet yet strangely warm on his skin. Dean had the oddest urge to giggle, “Hey, stop that–”_

_Consciousness jerked him back, back to the pain and the blood and the fear, a name, long forgotten, lost on the edge of his tongue._

00

“What the hell-” Dean swivelled his head about wildly, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. Although at least it wasn’t tinted red, thank fuck. Or purple. Alistair had strange tastes at the best of times.

Alistair…

The events of the night hit Dean like a freight train, along with the pain knifing through every conceivable part of his body.

He thudded his head against the floor. He’d refused a fight. What the hell had he been thinking-

“For someone so clearly accustomed to this type of lifestyle, if the scars on your person are anything to judge by, you showed a strange reluctance to engage with me back in the ring.” It wasn’t a question. The voice, deep and yet oddly smooth, was also damn distracting in a way that had nothing to do with the ringing in Dean’s ears, or the pain in his head. 

Dean craned his neck painfully, catching just the edge of a flash of blue through his own slitted eyes. Oh, right. Also, “On my _person_? Dude, who talks like that?!”

There was a rush of air beside him that might have been a movement or might have been a chuckle, Dean’s ears were ringing too hard to tell for sure, and then a curtain of untamed hair entered his field of vision. Ignoring his admittedly rather obnoxious question, the sentinel knelt at his side, reaching out deft hands to adjust something behind Dean’s head. His own shirt, if the drafts of stale air playing painfully across his abraded skin are anything to judge by.

Dean flinches at the presumption, but accepts it with only minor irritation, since now at least he can see more of the room. One of Alistair’s horribly named “cooling off cells” by the look of it.

Dean regarded his companion with confusion. _How the heck was this guy still alive?_

“Evidently I am more valuable to your employer alive than dead.” Dean blinked for a moment. Ok, just how powerful was this guy? Also, “Not my employer man. Since that kinda implies one has a choice in the matter and all.” Cain’s eyes turned thoughtful, considering.

Dean looked away. Those eyes were becoming rather disconcerting.

Grasping for a distraction, Dean eyed the man’s bloodied form for a moment, “So, what’s your story then? Why’d you do to get yourself mixed up in all this?” Dean knew that was unfair. Alistair had no scruples in how he acquired fodder for the ring, he had always known that. Just look how he acquired Dean.

But it got those damn eyes off his for three fucking seconds, so Dean counted it as a win, below the belt or not.

Apparently however, his companion could give as good as he got, “I wonder, was it misguided empathy or outdated morality that made you so concerned for the fate of one burnt out sentinel? Concerned enough to risk your own life, even.”

The voice was almost sonorous in the gloom, and Dean leveled a bitter glare at his companion, even as his mind kept repeating, _fuck, Adam_ on a loop of guilt and despair. What the hell did it matter to him anyway?

Cain leaned back against the cell wall, his large frame making a surprisingly compact image, folded up on the floor like that. If also a darn hot one.

“It _matters_ because I have no intention of staying here, and I’m still deciding whether to leave you here or not. It is currently the more prudent move.” A pause as Dean digested that, then, “And thank you for the compliment.”

Dean blushed furiously, “Seriously dude, stop doing that!” Powerful fucking sentinel, that was for damn sure.

Dean shuffled upright slightly, as much as his aching shoulders would allow at least, and met those unsettling blue eyes squarely, “I can help you get out of here undetected.” He tried to imbue his words with a sense of certainty, and then, in a moment of sheer desperation, he projected need and urgency and purpose as hard as he could, projected _I need to get back to my brother_ and prayed his companion would hear him a third time.

Blue eyes met green once more and held for a long moment. Then, in a move so sudden it nearly made Dean flinched back into the bars of the cell, a large, paw-like hand was extended in his direction. “My name is Cain.”

Dean accepted the follow through, appreciating the man’s apparent carefulness in avoiding applying undue pressure to the wraps still embedded in his knuckles, even while he struggled to find the strength to make it to a standing position, even assisted by the bear sized figure currently occupying this delightful abode with him.

…Or perhaps not so bear sized. Dean was startled to realize that he and Cain were very much of a height, himself perhaps even an inch or two taller…

An expectant eyebrow cocked his way, and Dean swallowed back John’s voice, practically shouting through his skull, “Never, never tell anyone who you are Dean! Never!”

Something stirred in the back of Dean’s head, something primal and shivery. Something with the softest of purrs. Blue eyes still regarded him with a swirling mix of pain, anger, resignation, and grief. But an oddly patient one at that.

Dean curled one of his hands into a fist, welcoming the renewed fire of the ache along his knuckles. Cain’s eyes flickered to follow the movement, and for just a moment, protectiveness swamped the cell, thick and tangy and sweet, like the barest hint of a memory Dean had buried a long time ago.

A memory that he had been forced to bury.

Dean remembered Adam, in the few months between him entering the Impala and John’s death, puffing his tiny chest up in a snarl, Bagheera a snarling ball of fuzzed out black and silver fur huddled on the motel bed beside him, throwing words at their father with more accusation in them than any pre-schooler should ever be able to express, “Leave Dean alone!”

And he remembers looking at that panther cub, remembers the feeling of bright, intense protection broadcasting from Adam, and he remembers thinking, Holy shit, my little brother just came online!

He remembers feeling so proud, like he did the first time Sammy smiled at him from his crib.

And he remembers John, a week before he died, buying yet more suppressant pills under the table, only this time they were for sentinels, not guides, and he remembers thinking with dread how John was going to get rid of Bagheera, was going to take him away, just like he took away-

_I wonder, was it misguided empathy or outdated morality that made you so concerned for the fate of one burnt out sentinel? Concerned enough to risk your own life, even._

Dean swallowed down the memories, the words, the pain, and forced his hand to unclench, to raise in a confident arc to meet Cain’s still offered one.

“My name’s Dean Winchester.” Green eyes snapped at blue almost in challenge, and for an indescribable second, Cain’s face split into the warmest of expressions.

“Pleasure to meet you. Dean.”

And somewhere in the distance, Dean could swear he heard something roar, wild and almost triumphant.

00

“Sam, Gabriel, dinner’s ready!”

Sam Winchester looked up from his stack of case files, catching the gold flecked eyes of his husband, sitting cross-legged on that ridiculous bed he just had to have, old police reports scattered hither and yawn. And who knew beds came in triple king size?

With reluctance, Sam closed the file before him, dropping it onto a teetering stack with a sigh.

Gabe’s eyes followed his movements, “Nothing?” Sam only managed a tight nod, Trudy running along his shoulders with a comforting chitter. Sam grinned weakly at the red squirrel, as Aurum turned piercing gold eyes on him, “We will find them Sam.” The look filled him with instant warmth, as it always did, and Sam shot their guide’s spirit animal a grateful look.

They say time healed all wounds, but fifteen years on, he still felt as ripped open as he did the day Grandma and Grandpa sat him down and explained that his imaginary big brother hadn’t been quite so imaginary after all.

But then, it was rare that they didn’t draw odd looks these days, whether for the number of people in their relationship or the habit that Sam shared with his boyfriends of actually talking to their spirit guides, or the configuration of two sentinels to a single guide. 

That last one in particular seemed to really get to people, almost like they were afraid of him, or more particularly, of Cas.

Sam snorted. As if Gabe couldn’t out guide the best guides out there. Or flatten most sentinels at fifty paces without breaking a sweat.

“Nothing,” Sam twined his fingers with Gabe’s, “Let’s not keep Cas waiting.” Gabe set the reports careful to one side, only then bouncing off the bed with his usual careless grace, Aurum not so much as twitching a feather out of place.

“Cassie and I’ll do some more after dinner.” Sam felt a warmth build up in his chest, as it always did when his boyfriends expressed their determination to aid him in his quest. The quest his own grandparents were only just tactful enough to not call a lost cause, or a complete waste of his life–the fact that tact only extended to when they thought he was within earshot was only part of why they rarely spoke, but it was a large part nonetheless.

Trudy, perched on Sam’s head, nodded so vigorously she almost fell off, “We’ll help!”

As Gabe tugged him from the room, Sam cast a last look at the picture claiming pride of place on one side table, a blonde headed toddler waving madly at the camera, I-luv-hugs t-shirt proudly displayed, a scrap of bluish fur blinking at the lens from the boy’s shoulder.

As he turned away, it seemed to Sam, as it always did, that two sets up eyes followed him. Two sets of the greenest eyes he had ever seen.


	2. Iron Bark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which saliva is a servicable antiseptic, and Dean has officially entered wierdsville, population two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iron Bark has a rich, heady flavour and a slightly nutty aroma.

“I came online here.” Dean jerked, only the long-honed reflexes of the best damn hunter this side of the Bible Belt preventing his head from snapping up and back.

Well, those reflexes and the ridiculously warm hand currently resting against the curve of his nape. Dean shrugged for the millionth time in what felt like as many minutes, watching the owner of that totally _not_ reassuring hand use his remaining free appendage to deftly unwrap yet another layer of glass laced boxer’s tape…and what looked like finish nails on this round, goody.

Dean waited a beat, carefully not thinking about the slight brush of a thumb over his spine at that very moment. Then, after another beat, “Dude, that’s the first thing you’ve said in like two hours! And now you’re just going to go back to giving me the silent treatment?”

More unwrapping, his companion’s face still mostly concealed behind a curtain of hair and a few visible frown lines. Then a chuckle suddenly came, filling up the space of the cell with the oddest essence of a fragrance, heady and rich and just a tad nutty. Dean inhaled involuntarily, swaying into Cain’s bulk with a suddenness that would have alarmed him if he was paying his own emotions the remotest bit of attention.

Because in that moment, for just a moment, he could /em>feel, really feel, in a way he hadn’t since, well, ever, if he was perfectly honest with himself. He’d been far, far too terrified of his dad’s reaction the last time to even think of using his empathic abilities. Plus, he’d been fourteen man, come on.

Now though…worry and wariness and anger and grief, so much grief, but also more than a hint of protectiveness filled every available space in his senses, more like submerging in a raging river than being slammed head first into a brick wall, really, for all that it made Dean’s head spin with the sheer _intensity…_

For just a moment longer, something white flashed through Dean’s mind’s eye, something, no someone, with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen…

And then it was gone, the cell rushing back into focus, all signs of the scent vanished like a puff of effervescent smoke in a gale. Dean swayed backwards as fast as he could, his muscles liquid and his legs jelly, only the hand still on his neck, the other still wrapped around his wrist, holding his slowly oozing appendage still, preventing him from pitching onto the rather questionably coated cell floor.

Dean blinked hard, his eyes finding the curtain of stubbornly unmoving hair. “How are you still sane?” It came out in a rush, artless and sincere in its incredulity. And perhaps that was the key to his silent companion, that unabashed honesty, if the response that finally garnered was anything to judge by. Perhaps this really was all about building trust, or some shit like it.

“I rather suspect no one would venture to call me sane Dean.” Blue eyes, the real, endlessly deep and sad ones, suddenly fixed on Dean. “You remind me of her.” Then, like a switch being flipped, “This is going to hurt.”

That was all the warning Dean got before the hand holding the edge of the last layer of wrappings suddenly jerked up and back, ripping the material completely clear of Dean’s right hand. The grip on his neck was implacable in its strength, and Dean spared a moment to be grateful for that, as it prevented him from collapsing onto the floor in sheer agony like some civvy wimp. Dean distantly recognized the echo of John Winchester in that thought, but he was in too much pain to really focus on his own bitterness at that man still being in his head, even five long years after he’d dropped off the face of the planet, probably literally. 

Naturally, his body choose that moment to faint into Cain’s arms like a wilted flower. Just freaking perfect.

00

His hand was on fire. That was the first thought that ran through Dean’s head, as he swam his way back up to the edges of consciousness, his eyes still stubbornly screwed shut. Not a liquid fire, not a burning agony, not unbearable. No, more an aching, stinging burn. A cleansing fire, if that were even possible.

Dean forced his eyes open a crack. Then he forced them open a bit wider. Then he blinked a few times. “Dude…are you _licking_ up my blood?” Dean swallowed the what are you, a vampire. He had never forgotten his first opponent, Benny’s sad, compassionate eyes an inexplicable contrast to his fanged incisors in fourteen-year-old Dean’s brain.

Cain paused for a moment in running his tongue over one of Dean’s knuckles, his eyes peering up at Dean through a tangled main of shot-through-with-grey hair. Dean was reminded strangely of a lion for a moment. “A sentinel’s saliva often works to speed their guide’s natural healing processes.” Dean considered that for a beat, eyed his position draped half across Cain’s lap, and then decided to pick his battles for now, “I’m not a guide.”

Cain slanted an eyebrow at the rather piss-poor lie, and went right back to licking. Dean shut his eyes with a huff of frustration. He most definitely did not lean into the warmth of Cain’s pullover. Definitely not.

For a while, the only sound in the cell was their oddly synchronized breathing, in between bouts of more magical healing saliva transference, or whatever the heck this complete trip into weirdsville was called. Sammy would have known what it was called.

Dean swallowed hard. He often wondered what the little shrimp ended up becoming. Probably an alpha sentinel, if the Winchester genes were anything to go by, John not withstanding. Or even a prime, Sammy always was special…

Dean let his head lull into the crook of Cain’s arm, fabric matted with old blood crunching under his skull. He thought he saw Cain wince, just for a moment. “So, are you like a prime or what, with a psychic aura like that?” Cain paused in his licking long enough to regard Dean with a sudden, sharp intensity, coupled with an almost surprised eyebrow tilt. Which, insulting much? “I’m on suppressants man, not dead. Plus, that aura of yours is strong enough to knock over an entire boatload of guides, never mind measly old me.”

Cain’s face turned stern. And wow, apparently this guy _could_ get hotter. “Don’t demean yourself Dean.” Dean rolled his head as far away from Cain’s warmth as he could, and Cain sighed in apparent defeat, “You need to have a pride to be considered a prime Dean.” As he spoke, he reached out and gently hauled Dean securely back into his chest.

Dean had never been called a quitter however. “What happened to your pride then?” His senses were feeling more alert than they had in years, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from asking the question, blatant insensitivity and all. Cain lent back against the cell bars, his expression distant. “I never had one to lose in the first place Dean.” Dean shrugged upwards as far as Cain’s grip and his own strength would allow, “You’ve never had a pride?” Incredulity warred with empathy in his head. And upon his face as well, if Cain’s sudden, decisive nod was anything to go by. 

Dean has never met anyone that he would describe as mercurial before, but he suspects the descriptor was invented with Cain in mind. 

“I came online in this cell. And half-an-hour after I came online as an alpha level sentinel, I ripped my own brother’s throat out in front of Alistair.” Cain met Dean’s eyes, his gaze unflinching, his tone brutal, “So you see, a pride was the last thing on my mind.” Dean swallowed, a million questions bouncing around his skull, a thousand emotions churning in his gut. 

Somehow, fear wasn’t one of them. “I think my dad might have killed my little brother.” It was baldly done, but there it was. The words he’d never found the courage to utter before. 

“I don’t remember him all that well.” Not _quite_ accurate. He had very few memories of Sammy, but those he did have were cherished and replayed over and over until he’d long since memorized every detail. “But I know that he was there one minute, and gone the next.” And John had never talked about him, never allowed his name to even be mentioned again. Dean had no proof, but, well, he knew John Winchester, all too well. 

Cain regarded Dean for a long moment, his face giving nothing away. Then, “What was his name?” Dean’s smile was cracked and aching, but it was a good ache, somehow. “His name was Sammy.” 

00 

“How did you come to be mixed up with the likes of Alistair?” Cain posed the question as casually as if he was asking what sports Dean played in high school, and Dean could have been glib or sarcastic or just plain mean, but he was too tired and in too much pain, and there was something behind Cain’s frozen expression that just made him even more exhausted. 

“M’Dad, said I needed to earn my keep, for my little brother, my other little brother…said my damn screwed up genes had to be good for something…” Dean fought against the slur in his words, his lips tacky and his eyelids growing ever heavier. Something deep and rumbly vibrated through his back, the scent of honey once again heavy in the air, and Dean cracked his eyes back open to grin dopily at the man still holding him in his ridiculously muscled arms, “Bet you woulda made an awesome pride prime…” 

00 

Cain watched Dean’s head slump to the side, his eyes slacking closed, some of the pain lines finally smoothing from his brow. 

With a sigh, Cain ran an absent hand through Dean’s blood matted hair. Dirty blond. Of course. 

His head clanged back against the bars, a growl ripping from his throat as Dean’s words came back to him, over and over and over again “that kinda implies _consent_ , you know.” 

It had been the eyes in the end that had truly done it though. Green eyes. Eyes so very like his Celeste’s. They had not had enough time together _after_ for Cain to truly tell, but he remains certain in his belief that Celeste was his one true guide. 

So no, this boy with his smart lip and his over bright eyes and cocky attitude while half bleeding to death is most assuredly _not_ his guide. And yet… 

Dean whimpered slightly in his sleep, and Cain hiked him even further into his arms, dropping his chin to press a firm kiss on Dean’s brow. 

Whatever the cause, for the first time in years-and more years than he cared to contemplate, if the technology littering Alistair’s hell on earth was anything to judge by-Cain felt the bubbling anger simmering across his mind _change_ , become sharper and more focused. 

He recognized the signs, had since the first brush of fur passed his fingers, back in the ring. It was the reason he’d ever made it out of that hell hole alive after all, whether this time or last time. Alistair had always been afraid of him, it was why he tried to destroy him before he could ever truly become a threat. 

Cain raised his head to regard the security camera blinking at him from the far corner. The same one as all those years ago, when Alistair had taken everything from him, just to have the pleasure of hearing him scream. 

Cain fixed his gaze on the lens, his sentinel rising to the surface of his skin at will. Alistair had tried to destroy him once, and he’d very nearly succeeded. But he’d made one mistake. He’d let Cain live. Just for the pleasure of watching him suffer. 

And yes, he’d been living in seclusion, ghosting on the edge of ferality long enough to not be _precisely_ sure what a cell phone was. But he was awake now. 

And Alistair was about to find out just what an alpha prime sentinel was capable of, when their protective instincts were aroused. A rumble echoed from the shadows to Cain’s right, a pair of ice blue eyes finding his own in the darkness. 

Cain smiled. It was all teeth. 


	3. Gallberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all Cain’s sudden burst of alpha protective instincts, it is Dean who gets them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gallberry has a tart flavour, like wildflowers.

For all Cain’s sudden burst of alpha protective instincts, it is Dean who gets them out.

Dean who, the moment he can stand without collapsing back against Cain’s chest, picks the lock of their oddly rusty yet state of the art cell door like the hunter he is.

Dean who stands between Cain and the passage leading to Alistair’s living quarters, alarms blaring so loud they can barely hear themselves think, that Cain almost feels his ears begin to bleed. And his eyes, because if there was ever a clue Alistair du Mort was an actual, real live, fire and brimstone demon, besides the name and the cruelty and the propensity to flinch at the name of god, it would be the fact even the security system for his not so super and not so secret fight club had _mood lighting_.

Dean who pierces him with those green eyes, and thinks at him, _Don’t you have anyone who would miss you when Alistair crucifies you in there?_ Because Cain might be really, truly awake and aware and here, for the first time in decades, but it has also been decades, and he is rusty and disorientated and almost weak from lack of food. And Dean is in even worse shape.

And somehow Cain finds himself thinking back, _well, there are my bees._ And Dean, being Dean, doesn’t laugh or smirk or ask him if he’s crazy.

He just nods decisively, shoots off, _Awesome, put me on that list too man,_ and heads down a different corridor, the sounds of guard boots beating in time with their hearts as Cain tries not to hover too, _too_ closely at Dean’s listing back.

Dean who stands in the open sewer tunnel, one foot in freedom, extending a mangled hand towards Cain, frozen in the threshold of Alistair’s lair, revenge and justice and pain and anger and grief buzzing through his head faster than his bees ever buzz around it.

Dean who huffs in exasperation, but never drops his hand, because he _gets it_ , and somehow Cain just knows that the stray thought rings very, very true.

Dean who grasps Cain’s limp hand in his own, his voice rough from bruising and blood loss but audible even over the overwhelming noise and stench of rancid water and far off alarms, “You wanted to know why I do this? Why I come back, again and again? I have a little brother, and his name is Adam, and he needs me to come home. That’s why I do this man. And I can’t make it back to him without your help.”

And with those words, those eyes and that determined jaw clench, it is Dean who finally gets him to let go of the past, if only for the moment, and take that first step over the threshold, into the world beyond.

00

A blur of red-blond hair and rawhead pajamas-thank you customizable online shopping!-hurtles into Dean chest with enough force to knock him into Cain. Mind you, the man hasn’t moved more than three or four inches from Dean since they breathed the first Alistair free lungful of air back in the sewers. Few things have ever made him gag stronger. Nor smelled sweeter

A blur of flaming red hair and rapid-fire questions followed close on the first missile’s heals, the disgruntled and worried form of his best friend stopping mere inches from flinging her arms around Dean’s battered form, “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? You’ve been ages, I was just about to call out some cos-players to come and break your ass out of that hell hole, I swear I was _this_ close Dean-” The sight of Cain seemed to induce a pause for breath, and Dean found himself grinning helplessly in the silence, even as his battered hands soothed through Adam’s silky hair.

“I missed you too Charlie.” There will be explanations. Lots of them. And a lot of low-volume yelling, because Charlie knows anything louder than a slightly raised voice never fails to make Dean flinch, no matter how hard he tries not to. And he may have to hide the lighter fluid to prevent Charlie from getting herself arrested for arson.

Or worse yet, killed by Alistair’s goons. He only throws _online_ sentinels into the Ring.

But in that moment, Charlie bites her lip to hold back tears, and wraps Dean up in an Epic Hug.

Dean choked into her hair, “Charlie, I look like an extra for an Exorcist sequel.” Charlie just squeezes harder, Adam snaking a small arm around her neck. “Shut up dude, you know I love the Exorcist sequels.” Dean squeezes back, and waits a beat, before saying with her “…except the first one.” Their eyes meet for a moment over Adam’s head, before they both dissolve into laughter, foreheads knocking and ribs aching as they clutch each other for support.

Dean feels his knees go weak for a moment when a tentative hand lands on his shoulder blade, clearly intended for support, if it became necessary.

And for reasons he can’t yet explain, Dean snakes out an arm of his own, and pulls Cain into their octopus pile of arms and legs and heads.

And damn if it doesn’t feel like the man’s always been there, arm warm on Dean’s back as he placed a careful paw on Adam’s head, fingers interlacing through Dean’s in the boy’s hair.

Charlie quirks an eyebrow at the newest addition to their Epic Hug and Dean feels a burst of mischievousness bubble up and out of his mouth, “This is Cain. He makes a really awesome pillow.”

Cain’s laughter isn’t exactly bright or clear, but it rumbles warm and gentle through Dean’s chest, echoing out into the cool night air surrounding them, and then out further, into the world beyond.

00

Dean isn’t sure if Adam quite knows what to make of their unexpected guest. Not that Dean can really blame him. The first thing the man had done upon crossing entering the house was to turn to Adam, still held securely in Dean’s arms, and _bow to him_. Arms akimbo, head tilted just slightly, shoulders giving just the barest of bends. But still, a friggin _bow_.

Well, to be complete precise, he bows to Bagheera, all two feet of silvery black fur and harvest yellow eyes of him. For his part, his little brother’s spirit guide blinks several times before standing tall on Adam’s shoulders and bowing back.

Which seems to be the answer Cain was looking for, because he vanishes into the depths of the house, returning in short order with the first aid kit.

At which point Charlie gives Dean a meaningful once over and shoots Cain an approving look and a thumbs up, before brushing a sotto voce, “You’re totally keeping this one dude” Dean’s way.

Cain is half-way through securely bandaging Dean’s left hand when Charlie drops off a sleepy Adam on a kitchen chair and breezes out the door with a dismissive wave to Dean’s perpetual “Thanks Charlie”–seriously, she doesn’t even bother saying, “Anytime bitch” anymore. Dean kinda misses it, for reasons that he refuses to look at too closely–and a stern, “You’d better be planning to stick around, buster” in Cain’s direction, complete with finger guns.

Cain blinks at the kitchen door as it swings closed, before regarding Dean with something that looks rather like respect, “Your friend is a most formidable individual.” Dean snorts quietly, and puts on his best Charlie impression, “Dude, you have _no_ idea.”

00

Cain has been staring at his mug of tea for a solid ten minutes when Adam pads over to him. Or rather, glaring at it.

Dean’s attempt to carrying the mugs to the table had prompted a gruff, “sit” from Cain, complete with finger pointing and stern expression. Dean had conceded the point with only a token grumble, because it was almost four in the morning and his hands were friggin on fire, okay.

Which is how Dean found himself watching Cain sniff his bear shaped bottle of generic honey with a curled lip, before sighing and squirting some into both cups anyway.

And then proceeding to have a ten-minute staring match with his, without taking a single sip.

Dean played with the cracked handle of his own nearly drained mug. He had no idea what one was supposed to say to a traumatized sentinel that helped you escape from the underground fight ring you’ve been conscripted into for nearly a decade. Let alone an alpha prime you just spent half the night passed out on top of.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Bagheera chooses that moment to zip around Adam and skid to a stop in front of Cain, a book clenched firmly between his teeth.

Cain blinked at the cub and boy, and Dean felt his hackles rise in preparation for the judgemental comment. It was four in the morning after all, but it wasn’t like Adam had school in the morning. And their lives had never exactly been conducive to keeping regular hours. They didn’t live out of a car eleven months out of the year though, so Dean hopes he’s at least doing _something_ right.

And don’t judge him about the school thing either, Charlie was eons better than any of that crap they taught in schools these days anyway. And Dean, well, he might not be _smart_ , by any stretch, but he got by, okay.

All of which Dean was queuing up in his mind, while another part of him was tensing to whisk Adam out of Cain’s reach if the man’s response was even the least bit annoyed. So naturally, he was rather unprepared for, “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, young one. My name is Cain.” And the sentinel actually held out a hand for his eight-year-old brother to shake.

For reasons he refused to examine too closely, Dean’s throat felt strangely tight as Adam thrust out a hand and shook Cain’s as vigorously as he could manage, “’m Adam, an’ this is Bagheera. Will you read us a bedtime story? Please?” Adam’s request was almost enough to make Dean miss the full body flinch Cain gave at his brother’s name. Almost. His brother _never_ took to strangers. Like, at all.

Dean tensed again. But all Cain did was carefully take the book from Bagheera and read the title solemnly, “ _Bears in the Night._ An excellent choice.”

Cain doesn’t look like someone who is a Dr. Seuss aficionado. But he also doesn’t say anything about Adam being much too old for such stories anymore. And there’s a reason his brother is no longer enrolled in school.

Dean watches Adam and Bagheera pile into Cain’s arms over the mug of his tea, and he feels something prick at the edge of his eyes.

He has the strangest feeling that Charlie isn’t going to be disappointed after all.

And as Cain begins to read, somewhere out there in the night, Dean could swear he hears a contented purr echoing back to his ears.


	4. Sourwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sourwood has a spicy, buttery aftertaste that lingers in your mouth.

“ _This_ is where you live?” Dean squinted through the early morning light reflecting off the Impala’s hood, his eyes tracing the trim white walls and cheerfully blooming forsythia wrapping around one corner of the structure.

He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He truly did.

But, well…it was just that Cain’s house was…nice. _Really_ nice. The kind of nice that had bee hives humming industriously in the front yard, fruit trees just visible through the back gate, which swung gently in the breeze on perfectly oiled hinges.

Dean would just bet the inside boasted a piano and crocheted doilies and throw pillows and napkins that actually matched in some way other than the type of stains on them.

Cain shifted his bulk in the passenger seat, his leather clad shoulder brushing Dean’s. “I built it for Collette.” Something tangy and sweet and yet bitter filled the air, and Dean didn’t have to be a guide to figure out that Collette, whoever she was, had meant the world to the sentinel slumped in the Impala’s passenger seat.

Dean shut his eyes for a moment, the lyrics of _Hey, Jude_ echoing in his mind. “It’s nice man, really nice.” Cain met Dean’s gaze for a moment, and Dean attempted to transmit as much sincerity and honesty as he could along whatever mystical, maybe-telepathic stuff there might be floating through his Baby’s cabin.

Dean’s been on suppressants for longer than his little brother’s been alive, but somehow, somewhere, something must get through, because Cain’s next move is to nod decisively and swing himself from the car.

And fuck if Dean isn’t about to disappoint Charlie and Adam, and maybe even himself, just a very little, and-

Cain’s hand landed on Dean’s arm through the half-cracked open driver’s window. He hadn’t even seen the guy move around from his side of the car, “Come inside, I’ll put some biscuits on to warm.”

It was a command. There was literally no other way to interpret that.

Dean watched Cain’s retreating back for a long moment, his jaw hanging open slightly.

And Dean, well, Dean has always been rather good at following orders, so sure, why not follow the possibly fratricidal alpha prime into his house to eat biscuits off his possibly dead possibly guide’s handmade doilies. At worst, he’ll end up as baking ingredients instead of part of his creepy-landlord’s next probably not cannibalistic stew.

00

It had taken some maneuvering, but Charlie eventually shepherded Adam off for a bath, leaving Dean with two of the more well stocked first aid kits in the house and a still bloody Cain.

Dean is just wondering if he might possibly weasel out of this whole thing, because really, he’s perfectly fine with letting the grit heal into his wounds. It would hardly be the first time, and really-

The suddenness of Cain’s freeze nearly toppled Dean into the worn worktop, a fresh splattering of red serving as a surprisingly decorative counterpoint for the decidedly suspicious stains that had been a major contributing factor to how John had managed to afford to rent a house with two bedrooms and a postage stamp yard full of weeds and blackberry brambles for his two underage sons in the first place.

Dean had watched his father spend all of two seconds calculating the likelihood that the rather too shifty landlord would attempt to serve Dean up in stew with the likelihood that his oldest son would be well able to protect his youngest from such a fate, and then hand over the first two month’s rent with barely a raised eyebrow.

The landlord still swung by every second Tuesday, to stare creepily at the house for exactly seventeen minutes and then drive off in his battered Ford again, but neither the car, nor the plates, nor the guy’s appearance had changed one iota in the last five years, so Dean had long since come to the conclusion that the stains were probably not caused by _that_ particular creep. Probably. It’s not like he ever let Adam out of his or Charlie’s sight anyway.

Although the whole thing had added a certain extra _something_ to the experience of becoming both orphan and single father at nineteen.

Dean flexed his hand, the tearing pain and welling blood taking his mind off _that_ particular memory, “Dude, warn a guy next time?” Cain merely continued to stare into space, his eyes locked on something over Dean’s shoulder.

Then he _inhaled_. Like, deep and intense and almost scary. Dean blinked.

Seriously, if the guy hadn’t saved his ass about a dozen times tonight, and if Adam didn’t already love him, and if Dean found Charlie just a hair less terrifying…

Dean brought his hand to his mouth, preparing to suck some of the blood away before weird-probably-not-a-serial-killer-landlord found a reason to raise the rent. Again.

Cain’s hand shot out, capturing Dean’s wrist in a predictably gentle grip. _This guy_ had killed his own brother? Right.

And then Cain ruined the sorta not creepy thing by _sniffing Dean’s blood._ What the fuck?

Cain’s eyes snapped to Dean’s face, the suddenness of it almost sending Dean into another stumble, this time _towards_ Cain.

“You smell wrong.” Dean stared at the blood streaking down his wrist, the mixture of sand and gravel still caught in the wound making it sludgy where it pooled on the back of his hand.

The night of his twentieth birthday, after Dean had long since figured out that John was never coming back, he’d left Adam with Charlie for the night, drunk half a bottle of whiskey, and then proceeded to open the Just In Case package John had stowed under that loose floorboard, cause his dad was from the really old and really obvious school of hiding the most important things in life.

Things which had consisted of his dad’s journal, a forged prescription for long-term suppressants, and a whole bunch of cash that still stank of stale beer and peanuts. Apparently, Dean and Adam at least rated his dad’s squirreled away poker winnings. Joy.

Dean tried very, very hard not to be bitter about the fact his father had taken out the photo he’d kept in the back cover of his journal for as long as Dean had dared to sneak peaks at it.

The only photo Dean had had of Mary and Sam.

Cain cleared his throat, jerking Dean back to the present. And he tried to cover, he really did. Did a pretty good job too, but then, he’d always been a master of bullshit. Learned from the best.

“Suppressants, dude.” Appropriately casual smirk, just the right degree of nonchalance in the shrug.

Cain blinked at him for a long moment, and in that moment, Dean was hit with a wall of rage so strong and deep it nearly flattened him against the stove. A scent of acrid smoke filled the air, and then with a snap of Cain’s shoulders, all of it just _stopped_ , as quickly as it came.

Dean blinked for a moment, “You’re getting better at that.” He braced himself for the cuff, cause the sarcasm in there could have walked away by itself.

He cracked an eye open when nothing happened except Cain brushing a gentle thumb over the pulse point on his wrist. And now, well now Cain just felt _sad_. For Dean, apparently.

Dean wasn’t sure how he knew that. It’s not like he had much experience with this sentinel and guide crap. And damn if that hadn’t sounded exactly like something John would say.

Dean hesitated for a long moment, then offered his other, equally dripping hand up to Cain in a somewhat grotesque parody of a peace offering. “Still want to bother patching me up?”

Cain appeared to know what to do with self-pity at least. And somewhere between being shot a look drier than the Sahara with its accompanying, “Of course,” and manhandled to the sink with a gruff, “Brace yourself, this won’t be pleasant,” Dean realized that this might just be one relationship where he wasn’t the most screwed up one in it.

But it also might just be a relationship he would get to keep, too.

00

The biscuits are honey flavoured. Warm and crumbly, the steam still rising from the slice. There are no body parts in sight.

There _are_ doilies, sky blue with little yellow sparrows crocheted into them. There is fine bone china with tiny sprigs of roses dashed across the handles.

Dean has yet to see a piano, but damn if the inside of this house isn’t exactly what the outside promised.

Really, _really_ nice. And really, achingly homey.

Dean watches Cain retrieve yet another pan of baked goods from the oven, and fuck nobody should look that hot in an apron of all things. Particularly not one with chipmunks on it.

Dean swallowed a scalding hot sip of tea to clear the choke out of his throat. Adam would love this place.

Cain didn’t pause in his task, “You should bring him over soon, if you feel comfortable doing so.” He turned with a sweep of hair and a waft of warmth, “I would be honoured to show you both my hives.”

And oh, yeah, apparently broad, dark, and looming was a bee keeper who had an online store where he sold artisan honey.

Dean swallowed another sip of tea, and just managed to keep his voice level, “He-we’d love that, thanks man.” Cain tried not to appear too startled at the sincere warmth in Dean’s words, he really did.

He didn’t drop the baking sheet though, so Dean gives him full marks for effort.

00

Cain waits until Dean has a mouthful of his fifth biscuit before he leans over the table to place yet another jar of homemade honey at Dean’s elbow, and while he’s leaning away again, meets his impromptu breakfast partner’s eyes for a scant moment, and without even blinking says, “I believe you are my guide, Dean.” Dean waits for a blink. And then another.

Nothing.

He rolls moist, rich scone around in his mouth for a moment. There…are so many potential responses to that. He could choke.

He could chance another glance at the face down picture frame over by the pleasantly stained oven, drippings of honey crystalized to its otherwise spotless front, and shoot off a wry, “I thought you only got one of those per lifetime.” But even at not-quite twenty-five, Dean knows when he’s several decades of heartbreak and living shy of being able to say things that cruel.

He could say, “I thought all the cool kids met their matches online these days.”

He could say, “Been on suppressants so long, I can barely tell telepathy from empathy anymore.”

He could say, “I think my dad hunted my spirit guide.” Could add, “I’m also fairly sure he hated me, and I can’t tell if it was for what I am, or if it was just for being me.”

But what he does do is think about Adam, three going on thirty and proudly holding up his spirit cub to Dean, piping out an eager, “Can we name him Bagheera?”

Thinks about kneeling down and reaching out a shaking hand to smooth back Adam’s hair, thinks about saying, “I think that’s up to him to decide kiddo, so why don’t we ask him?”, thinks about a small tongue flicking out to brush a hesitant, rough and warm lick across the back of his hand.

What he does do is swallow the bite of biscuit, letting the warm, buttery tang sooth its way down his throat and bloom into his chest.

What he does do is catch the arm of Cain’s faded, checked shirt with a bandage and crumb encrusted hand.

What he does do is draw Cain towards him and touch their mouths together, that sweet, buttery tanginess blossoming along their lips, across their tongues, spreading out through the kitchen until its all Dean can taste, or smell, or see. Or feel.


	5. Tawari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tawari has a rich gold colour, with a smooth, butterscotch flavour.

Sam met Gabriel first.

That always confuses people, whenever they tell the story of how they first met, all three of them. Confuses people enough that sometimes, a lot of times, they tell the far safer, not to mention traditionally cuter, story of how Gabe met Cas. It’s hard not to find a story of two pre-teens and an eagle covered in icing sugar cute. Really hard. Although Sam has seen people try, and because the world is stupid and bigoted and cruel at the best of times, succeed far too often.

So, if even the frankly adorable image of Aurum licking powdered sugar from Cas’ hair makes people blink twice, Sam supposes it was inevitable that how he met his fiancés would send people for a loop many of them never called back from.

Because while Sam met Gabe first, golden haired, golden painted, outrageously flirting Gabe, it was actually Cas that he _noticed_ first. Technically. Or, to be more specific, it was Cas’ spirit guide.

To be entirely fair to Sam’s libido and Gabe’s flirtation skills, Angelus was pretty unforgettable.

They don’t talk about Cas’ childhood…ever, really. But the one thing Sam knows for certain, the one thing _Gabe_ knows for certain, and he was actually sorta there for a lot of this, is that one morning when Cas was nine, his father left the family.

And later that same day, the FBI descended on the Novak household. Not because of their missing father. No, it had a lot more to do with the adolescent dragon that had crashed onto the front lawn around the same time Chuck Novak’s battered old station wagon drove away, never to be seen again.

Considering he met them at a sculpture exhibit, Cas somehow managing to make both wearing flipflops and carving in marble hip, cool, and _lucrative_ , Sam feels he might be forgiven for thinking his boyfriend’s spirit animal was one of the pieces of artwork on display.

A very impressive, very ornate piece of artwork with blue-white skin and black-blue eyes. And then the piece of artwork had _moved._

Gabe, how hasn’t an artistic bone in his body, if one doesn’t count a rad fashion sense and quite a flair for the dramatic, had broken Sam’s startled fall beautifully, using Aurum’s eight foot wingspan to literally swoop to the “cute law geek’s” rescue.

It was a memorable experience for many reasons, not the least of which was Cas, orange flip flops, plaster dust, and show stopping blue eyes, managing to _stride_ onto the scene with a frosty glare at his boyfriend. The boyfriend currently brushing glitter gleefully into Sam’s hair. “Gabriel, kindly remove your person from potential clients. _We’ve talked about this._ ”

Sam, nineteen and not exactly lacking in bravado, had somehow found the inner strength to blink a few times, because that voice, and gesture broadly between Trudy barely restraining her excited vibrating on his shoulder and himself, “Actually, I think I’m the one who should apologize…and, maybe we couldinviteyouallforacoffeeaftertheshow?” The last should have been incomprehensible, partly due to the speed of delivery and partly due to the fact Trudy had backed up Sam’s _we_ by saying that last bit _with_ him, but somehow, the words not only registered with their audience, but the strangest thing happened in response.

And yet the most perfect thing imaginable, somehow.

The very much not-a-dragon-statue _laughed._

Three years later, Sam is still pinching himself to wonder how he got this lucky, to have two amazing fiancés, and Trudy to have fellow spirit guides who not only accept them for all their quirks, but also love Sam enough to help him plan a secret proposal for both his boyfriends.

It had involved glitter.

“Parmesan, Sam?” Angel proffered the aforementioned item to him on a carefully extended claw, and Sam took it with a smile. Gabe paused in slurping his spaghetti to offer Trudy a meatball, only to receive a scathing, “I’m vegetarian, Doctor glitter” for his trouble. Cas, Aurum somehow succeeding in napping on the sentinel’s shoulder, quirked a brow at Sam’s smile.

Nights where they searched for Dean did not usually involve much smiling. “Is everything all right, Sam?” Sam blinked at the sudden wetness pressing against the backs of his eyes.

He couldn’t remember not having Trudy in his life. According to his grandmother, the first words she and Samuel ever heard him utter were to the little squirrel kit.

They had always been different. Weird. Unnatural.

Sam ran a hand over Angel’s scales, ducking his head to hide his tears against the dragon’s obligingly positioned neck. “Yeah, yeah Cas, everything’s great.”

Cas sounded distinctly puzzled, “You are crying.” Gabe paused in his slurping for a moment to enunciate around a meatball, “Sometimes people cry when they’re happy, Cassy.”

The rich scent of cheese and sauce exploded along Sam’s tongue as he said it, even though he had yet to take a single bite of his dinner. Sam licked his lips gently, and hid his face further into Angelus’ smooth, glistening scales.

People always ask him how they met, when they realize he has two boyfriends instead of one. Those same people generally drift away in droves when the subject of spirit guides comes up.

Nobody ever asks him if he’s happy, not even his own grandparents.

Gabe and Cas though? Well, they’ve never had to ask. If he’s happy. If he’s okay. If he knows his big brother is out there somewhere, alive.

They’ve always just known.

00

Mary used to read them a bedtime story, the same one every night. It was Dean’s favourite.

He doesn’t remember much about his mother, a flash of blond hair and green eyes, the brush of a hand across his cheek, the lilt of her voice on the J in _Hey Jude_. But he remembers this.

He remembers a story of gardens and flowers, bees and honey. He remembers a story of true love and happy endings. He remembers a story of sentinels and guides and spirit animals. He remembers the feeling of his mother’s happiness when she told it, a mixture of fresh vanilla and baked apples and old Beatles tunes.

He remembers asking John once, “Dad, was Mom a guide?” He remembers nursing his first black eye, and he remembers deciding, eight going on eighty and so very alone in ways he has never truly been able to understand, that there was no such thing as soulmates. No such thing as love at first sight, or perfect psionic matches, or fate, or destiny.

And he still believes that, he really, truly does. Except…

Cain grows delphiniums and roses in his garden, cascades of yellow and blue and pink and red carpeting the elegant rockeries and rustic beds.

He makes his own honey, in every flavour from apple to currant to vanilla-pomegranate.

He lets Dean watch while he tends his bees, netting and cloth the only thing separating them, Dean leaning against his shoulder for reasons he isn’t ready to fully think about yet.

He doesn’t believe in fate, or love at first sight, except…

He met Charlie in the frozen food aisle, Adam squalling in his arms, his hand reaching for the bagged peas, Charlie swooping in with her red hair and _Aragorn Rocks_ t-shirt, all, “Dude, you’ve gotta get the mixed corn and carrots, that little man will love it, trust me!” And she’d blinked those chocolate-brownie eyes at him, and somehow he’d found himself thinking, _Will you be my new best friend, pretty please?_

And Charlie was as psionically gifted as a cos-play Shards of _Narsil_ , but seven years and three road trips to Comic-Con later and she was still there, like glue and burs in a dog’s fur.

He doesn’t believe in destiny or blind faith, except…

Cain returned that kiss ten-fold, pressing Dean against the table top in a downright swoop of a kiss and its epic and sweet and fucking hot…and he pulls away a moment later to stare into Dean’s eyes with more intensity than he gave that security camera in Alistair’s hell hole and whispers out, “Are you quite sure Dean?”, harsh and hushed and utterly sincere.

He doesn’t believe in second chances or happy endings, except…

Charlie had brought Adam over later, gaping appropriately at the house and slugging Cain in the shoulder with a, “Nice digs, dude!” And Cain had merely blinked laconically and offered her a scone.

And Cain’d scrunched up a bee keepers outfit for Adam, carefully guiding his little brother’s hands in sliding out a perfectly formed honey comb. And he’d shown Adam how to put back a little for the bees, and he’d held the boy up in his arms while he named every bee he could see, whisper-shouting things like, “Zelda!” and “Arwen!” and “Glorfindel!” into the bright afternoon sunshine.

Dean didn’t believe in trusting other people, in risking his heart, let alone Adam’s. Except…

When they finally, finally left for the day, Adam had wrapped his arms around a startled Cain’s waist, gazing up into those oddly gentle, yet infinitely haunted blue eyes, and asked, “Can I help you with the bees again soon, Mr. Cain?”

And Dean had swallowed hard at Cain’s yes, Adam’s whoop echoing around the yard, and he’d met Charlie’s I-told-you-so-smirk with a middle finger, and somehow the gesture made the ache in his hands feel better instead of worse.

Dean doesn’t believe in fairy tales, mysticism or any of that shit. Except…

When Cain asks if he’s sure, he licks a fleck of butterscotch flavoured smoothness from his lower lip, bites his teeth down over his tongue, and rasps out, “Yeah, I’m sure…Sentinel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas' spirit guide is a white dragon.


	6. Wildflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.” -JK Rowling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wildflower refers to a variety of honeys flavoured with different wildflower mixtures, and can range from light and fruity in taste, to rich and tangy.

Dean is weeding an herbaceous border, whatever the heck that is, when Millie comes back to him.

The trowel in his hand is old, so old in fact that bits of it keep flaking off onto his palm with each thrust and wiggle, soil cascading left and right as the weed root comes free.

It’s oddly hypnotic, and yet oddly satisfying, that repetitive dig and pull, shake, dig, and pull.

Sort of like killing rawheads. Or avoiding punches in the ring.

_Not that one Dean._ Dean’s hand slips, sending dirt cascading over his bare toes. “Sonna-” _That happens to be a rather rare heirloom basil plant._ Dean glares mutinously at the wall of the house, “Stop doing that!” and then, “…which one’s the basil thing again?”

It’s been a little over two months since his last cage fight, because that’s how Dean’s measuring this, how he’s always measured time, since he was fourteen and skinny as a rake, learning to dodge opponents three times his size by deadly trial and rather a lot of painful, painful error.

Not two months since Cain saved him, or two months since he saved Cain. Or even, two months since he got his first ever, proper _boyfriend_.

Partners, _please, Dean, I am not a hormonal teenager…or lovers, if you prefer._

Dean muttered some rather uncharitable things under his breath, raising his voice to shouting distance because Cain not only had a really, really, ridiculously nice house, he also had it situated on a piece of land large enough to house several football stadiums, “That makes it sound like we’re in _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ or something.” Dean was on the verge of throwing a mental, _What, I read_ , on the end of that when Cain’s rich, deep laughter literally stole the defensive wind from his sails.

Dean curled his hands into the warm earth, letting the stillness of the morning air amplify that chuckle into a whirlwind of warm, suffocating sound.

Sound that seemed to go on forever. Dean….didn’t really know what to do with how good that made him feel, how _not_ terrified. He hadn’t really had much time to get used to the whole _partner_ thing yet.

Dean dove into the misdirection offered by the echoing silence. Sides, it truly was a ridiculously big property.

Adam had made them measure it. Because the kid could be quirky like that, well, a lot of the time, but damnit-well, more damn John, but whatever- if Dean didn’t love every crazy, unpredictable minute of it.

_It’s not wrong to enjoy parenting Dean, you are, for all intents and purposes, the boy’s father._

Dean threw a clump of dirt at the kitchen window. Two months since his last cage fight, and between Adam’s crazy will-involve-an-all-day-hike plans, figuring out how many flavours of honey Cain actually makes, and worrying Alistair might pop up from behind the nearest bush-and seriously, not that Dean is complaining, but why hasn’t he yet? It’s been two months, and it’s not like Cain has a shortage of available bushes-, well…having an annoyingly telepathic boyfriend hasn’t really been on the top of his things-to-adjust-to-list.

_Dean…don’t get dirt in your eyes._ A laugh of his own startled out of Dean, because that…that had sounded down right fond. Fond enough he could taste it, could _feel_ it, right through his chest.

_Dude, you’re totally smitten with me._ A pause, then a somehow _mentally arid, Whatever gave you that idea._ And yes, there was more than a touch of sarcasm there, but still, _Those window frames are eighteenth century antiques or some shit, remember, you wouldn’t shut up about it when Adam was into architecture last week, and I totally rate higher than them!_

Dean’s ears distantly picked up Cain muttering about his no doubt twisted mind, and smirked at the twin holes he’d been absentmindedly digging in the lawn.

Teasing Cain via telepathic IM was the best.

Dean was patting the earth back into place, a dopey grin on his face, when he stiffened suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck raising of their own accord.

He was being watched. Dean slowly placed his hands more firmly in the dirt, preparing to whirl around, his back carefully positioned to the house, and the relative proximity of his sentinel, rather than any of the all-too-numerous potentially-Alistair-concealing bushes dotted around his peripheral vision.

Then he heard the purr.

And just like that, everything stopped.

00

_“You be a good boy and look after Adam now, you hear me Dean?” Dean remembers fisting his hands in the cool, grimy wire of the ring, remembers pressing white-red lines in his palms that took days to fade in the effort to just hold on and not reach out for his dad. Remembers wishing they had scarred instead._

_Remembers the pleased, almost masturbatory smirk on Alistair’s face at the crack in Dean’s voice, a crack that had nothing to do with being nineteen and fucking terrified, and everything to do with just wanting his dad to tell him everything was going to be okay,_ “D- _d_ ad, don’t okay, we’ll work something out, I’ll do better, I _promise, I’ll try harder, just don’t-” Just stay, please! He never got to say it, never got the chance to force the words out._

Never got the chance to say anything else to John, ever again, Alistair’s hand on his father’s arm, his words dripping with false promises, “You’re daddy will be right back kiddo,” Dean’s body slamming against the wire mesh uselessly, John’s brown eyes gazing back at him for one last, haunted look, as one last _“Dad!”_ _cracked from Dean’s bleeding lips._

_He never saw John again._

00

“My brother came online when he was twelve.” Dean blinked glassy eyes in the soft light emanating from the kitchen, Cain’s hunched form propping up the doorway, a perpetual cup of tea clasped in his hands. Dean swallowed past a throat raw from screaming.

It’s only the third time he’s stayed over, and so far he hasn’t made it past the couch, by mutual consent, but Dean is very aware that his nightmares were never what one might call _quiet_ , to say nothing of _subtle_ or _easy to ignore_. Let alone when one was sharing a house with a fucking prime.

“That for me?” He gestured vaguely at the cup, and Cain shuffled forward obligingly, pausing for just a moment to confirm Dean wouldn’t burn his hands on the ancient porcelain before folding himself down, a resolute couch length away. He didn’t ask what the nightmare was about.

He didn’t comment on the picture frame resting on Dean’s knees. It was old, faded by at least a good decade or two, and the men in it were _smiling,_ but Dean would never forget that face. Even if the eyes were different, but then, perhaps that was just a trick of the light.

Dean snorted. Yeah, when was it ever just _a trick of the light._

Cain’s voice, when it came, was pitched only for his ears. Not that a soul was stirring for miles and miles, Dean could now borrow enough of Cain’s senses to know that for a certainty. But more, because Cain only ever did that, pitched his voice, when he _wasn’t_ listening in on Dean’s thoughts. “Our father killed our mother, in this very living room.” Cain gestured to the crotcheted rug that never left its admittedly odd position of roughly two thirds to the left of the center of the room. “The blood never did come out of the floorboards.”

Dean took a scalding hot sip of his tea and sucked in the wince. Cain paused his conversational tone to throw a concerned wave of warmth Dean’s way. _Blow on it first Dean, it’s hot._

It was just the whisper of a voice in his head, but John’s last, echoing command, _look after your brother, Dean!,_ was just loud enough to make him cruel enough to ask, “Did you really kill him?” He gestured minutely to the reddish haired man grinning from the apparent blissfulness of Alistair’s arms. The man with Cain’s eyes.

Cain’s gaze went back to the rug, and fixed there. “I was outside when it happened, tending to the bees, but Abel…Abel was right here, trying to do what he always did, come between them.” Cain barely seemed to be breathing, so lost was he in the memory, “He came online in the same moment our mother’s heart ceased to beat. The empathic feedback was felt all the way into town.” Cain didn’t say what happened to his father. Dean isn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Neither of us ever expected to settle down, to have normal relationships. To find people to love us…” Dean completed the sentence in his head, _But then Celeste happened._ He smiled softly, “She sounds like one helluva woman.”

Cain slid a few inches closer, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the undeniable truth. He hardly had to. It was written all over ever surface of this house. This home, so filled with love and warmth and light, despite the tragedies its walls had born witness to.

Cain raised one hand, acknowledging the picture on Dean’s lap for the first time, “Abel met Nathan in medical school, over a cirrhosised liver.” A faint smile played across Cain’s lip at the long-forgotten wording, “Nathan was…a very kind man. A very gentle man.” He swallowed, a sharp odor of burnt scones and stale tea hitting Dean’s nose.

He stared at the picture again. _Never just a trick of the light._ “And then he changed.” Cain blinked at Dean, but there was no surprise in his eyes. “And then he changed. Little things at first, reacting too late to shared jokes, missing emotional cues, forgetting Nathan’s birthday and not apologizing. Little things…none of us realized, not until…” _Until it was too late_. Dean sent the thought to Cain, grim in his certainty.

_It’s always the little things_ they _get wrong._ “Alistair established the club fifteen years ago. Lately he was always boasting about the _big anniversary_ coming up.” Or rather, just arrived, as of two months ago. The night they met.

The wave of grief emanating from Cain nearly choked Dean in its intensity, and he’d spent his few pre-suppressant days with _John_ as his sole companion.

Cain met Dean’s eyes in the dimness, hesitant, questioning, not daring to even ask, yet unable to say any more.

Dean didn’t even hesitate. _It’s okay._ And then, image after image flashing between them, lightning quick.

_Cain, waking up in a far, far too familiar cell._

_The sounds of a fight, a man’s pleading,_ Nathan, why?! _A woman’s screams, abruptly cut off-_

_Cain, throwing himself at the bars._

_Alistair’s yellow eyes glinting in triumph. Abel covered in blood, kneeling over the corpse of his newly online brother’s guide._

_Cain, blind with rage and grief, throwing himself at his brother and hitting and hitting and hitting, Alistair’s high, cruel laughter echoing around the cage._

_The light leaving Abel’s eyes. Cain’s eyes._

_Cain’s scream, echoing out as if from his very soul._

Dean gasped, the cup slipping from his fingers to shatter on the floor. Cain was at his side in an instant, hands hovering, eyes hesitant and so very, very _scared._

Dean lunged.

It wasn’t the most awkward embrace he’d ever initiated, shaking apart sentinel, tea-soaked jeans, mentally shattering recollections and all.

In fact, when he wrapped an arm around Cain’s back, drawing his sentinels’ head down to rest against his chest, whispers of honey and butterscotch and caramel and mint floating through the air between them, and thought, _It’s okay to miss them_. Well, it was actually rather perfect, fucked up messes that they both were, and probably always would be.

Cause, well, at least now, they had each other.

And Alistair could just fuck right off back to the hole he crawled out of, because Dean was never letting anything tear them apart, now that they’d found each other.

Not even the effing grand torturer of Hell.

00

Dean woke to a rough tongue licking down his cheek.

He blinked sleep from his eyes. And then blinked again, just for good measure. “…Cain?” The warm bulk pressed against Dean’s side stirred slightly. “…what is it Dean?” Seriously, how did he sound that awake that fast, also, “There’s a lion on top of us.” A very white, very fluffy, for lack of a better descriptor at this time in the morning, lion. A very white, very _fluffy,_ very blue-eyed lion.

Very familiar blue eyes, at that. Cain blinked his eyes open, a large paw resting squarely on his chest, the gesture somehow more heart wrenching than heart pounding. “Abel.” It was barely a whisper of a prayer, but the lion blinked ocean blue eyes at them, before chuffing its head into Cain’s chin.

And that’s when Cain finally, finally starts to cry.

00

“Abe, get off!” Bagheera’s voice was high and squeaky with suppressed giggles, his human having long since given up the battle and dissolved against the broad back of Cain’s surprisingly mischievous spirit guide.

Dean stepped around the puppy-or more, accurately, kitten-cat-kid-pile spread across the kitchen floor and slid up behind Cain, his arms entwining across ridiculously firm abs.

Cain calmly flipped a rabbit shaped pancake over effortlessly, simultaneously dropping a rough kiss on the side of Dean’s head with apparent ease. Dean grinned stupidly for a moment, then took a deep breath. “…Sammy loved chocolate chip pancakes.” Cain flipped over a stegosaurus. “I know.” There was a wealth of meaning there, the ringing, _It’s okay to miss him, Dean_ drawing a sudden, wet chuckle from Dean.

Of course, Cain knew. Dream sharing wasn’t something Dean had ever considered when making that pro and con list of getting off suppressants after John…left.

But then, he hadn’t had a sentinel to worry about back then. Just a toddler and no-one to watch him while Dean went through withdrawal.

But they’re more than four months post cage fights now, so when Charlie took Adam and Bagheera on that super-secret-camping-trip-of-awesomeness-and-science a fortnight back, Dean has hesitated for less than half a day before driving the Impala to Cain’s house and dumping his pills on the kitchen table with a thud and a decisive, final “I’m game if you are.”

Abel had answered for both of them by crushing the suppressants into dust with a dinner-plate sized front paw.

A week post withdrawal, and Dean’s still waiting for his empathy to kickstart above a whisper.

And carefully _not_ allowing himself to think about purring, deep and rich and warm.

But he also doesn’t have to figure out how to say, “My mom died on my brother’s bedroom ceiling when I was four, and somehow the most fucked up part of it for me is still the fact my dad decided he hated “gifteds” more than he loved his own sons.” Or, “I haven’t seen Sammy in twenty years and I’m not sure if I remember what colour his eyes were.”

And his partner also knows that Sammy loved dinosaurs. And chocolate chip pancakes.

And good morning hugs.

So, on balance, Dean, one, John and his obsession with suppressing any and all guide abilities in his oldest son, zero. 

00

The purring is getting louder. Dean curls his fingers through the dirt until he feels nail against palm.

Somehow, he can’t make himself turn around. Not even when a hot, moist breath chuffed past his left ear.

Dean closed his eyes, his chest feeling oddly tight.

A memory, long buried by blows to the head and the muffling pain of chemicals, rose in his mind.

_Fur, soft yet sharp. Eyes, bright yet kind, and green as Harry Potter’s mum’s._

_Dean, fourteen and on his fifteenth Empire re-watch, crowing,_ “Han Solo is the coolest!”

_A high, laughing voice snarking back,_ “And the hottest!” _Dean, heady with teenage sarcasm and newly discovered friendships, shooting back,_ “Just for that, I’m calling you Millennium.”

Dean exhaled slowly, letting the breath melt out of him at the weight of the warm, live, real body that pressed to his back. And in that warmth, he found the courage to reach inside himself, and finally, finally, let himself _feel._

“Hey Millie.”

00

Gabriel Collins has a massive sweet tooth. That has never exactly been a secret, to anyone. Not to his boyfriends, one of whom met him in a bakery buying a dozen glazed donuts and the other of whom still speaks fondly of the fact their first kiss tasted like icing sugar.

Not to his students, who rib him with donut covered chairs and chocolate smeared assignments.

And certainly not to his siblings, who gave up on buying him anything but sweets for birthdays and Christmas years ago.

Anna, his little sister who is also a personal trainer and an epic pain in his ass, refuses to outright “enable his habit” and resorts to helping him “dig his own grave” remotely.

In other words, she buys him gift cards instead. To sweet shops.

This year, it was to a little online store that sold mostly honey. Lots and lots of honey. But also happened to have the best hand made chocolates this side of the Eastern seaboard, according to everyone and their grandmother in the sugar addicts web-o-sphere.

Honey flavoured, of course.

Gabe blinked at the google search that had been open in his laptop browser for what felt like an eternity. Anna’s gift envelope lay open on the desk before him, the gift-card carefully pushed under it just far enough to still be readable, yet also easily concealable, in case Sam should walk by.

In case this all turned out to be a sugar-withdrawal-induced flight of fancy.

Gabe’s hand hesitated over the mouse for a long moment. To click or not to click, that is the question. Gabe snorted at his own joke, only to cut himself off mid mental snort as Aurum followed up his withering eye slant by leaning over and deliberately pressing down on button with his beak.

_Click._ Gabe made a grab for his spirit guide, “Hey! Aurie! Not cool–”

It was the look in those gold-yellow eyes that cut him off, that stopped him in his tracks and forced his own gaze to follow his soul’s mirror, as the songsters loved to dub them these days, followed the eagle’s eyes to the screen.

To the picture that had just loaded up, the heading _About the Apiculturist_ decorated with rather whimsical bees, their tiny wings seeming to dance before Gabe’s suddenly watering eyes.

There were other people in the image, a gruff looking, if rather gorgeous, lumber-jack type that Gabe could only assume was “the apiculturist” in question, a little boy with sandy-red hair and a million freckles waving shyly at the camera, a small ball of black-silver fur perched on his shoulder…and then there was the man standing in the middle, the one the little boy had an arm firmly wrapped around one leg of, the man with his head thrown back in a laugh, gazing almost rapturously up at “the apiculturist”, their shoulders knocking into each other, their eyes locked on one another.

There was something oddly intimate in that look, something indefinable and magical and ancient. Something Gabe saw every night at the dinner table, when Sam gazed at Cas, or at him. Or, if his boyfriends ever caved on his suggestion of converting the kitchen’s back wall into a floor to ceiling mirror, the look he’d see reflected back in his own eyes, every time he looked back at them.

There was such _love_ in that look, that it nearly took Gabe’s breath away.

Or would, if he’d had any breath left to spare. Because gazing away from the camera or not, the look in the dark-blonde, flannel rocking guy’s eyes was familiar for a whole other reason.

Because _he knew those eyes._ Knew them almost as well as he knew his boyfriends’, or his spirit guide’s, or their spirit guides’, or even his own.

Aurum’s beak clicked against the screen with a slight tapping sound. Gabe refocused his attention, ready to flick his hand forward, because the fact nobody had yet invented a touch screen that would respond to a spirit guide, let alone a spirit guide’s beak, was of endless annoyance to his temperamental companion.

His hand froze half-way to the screen. Because there, under Aurum’s beak, was the final proof of what he’d been half-afraid to even suspect, the moment he’d opened Anna’s gift card to the words _Adamson-Winchester Apiaries Ltd., There’ll be peace when the bees come_

Half-buried under the largest, most piercingly blue-eyed white lion Gabe had ever thought to see, was a just slightly smaller bunch of lounging blue-black fur, side pressed against the laughing man’s leg.

And from the tiger’s massive head, gentle eyes stared keenly out at Gabe.

The greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

Gabe shut his own eyes, hard, his hand finding Aurum’s shoulder blind and gathering his spirit animal to his chest.

He laughed wetly into the eagle’s wing feathers. “Sam n’ Cas had better never complain about my sweet tooth again.” Aurum rumbled a soft cry right beside his ear, the sound a little too choked up to be quite as much of a derisive snort as it was meant to be.

Gabe snuggled even closer to Aurie’s breast, letting their heartbeats sink together in the silence of his office before he reached out to his partners, ascertaining that they were all in safe locations, and not likely to set anything on fire or cause a traffic accident.

Gabe opened wet eyes, and gazing once more at the boy, no, man, and his tiger pictured so innocuously on his laptop screen, he sent a thought he’d been praying he would one day be able to say for nearly four years.

_We found them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the first story, there will be a sequel at some point, titled The Art of Apiculture, which will complete the story.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam’s spirit animal is a red squirrel called Trudence, Trudy for short. Gabe’s is a golden eagle named Aurum (Latin for gold). Cas’ is a white dragon named Angelus.  
> Cain's spirit guide, Abel, is a white lion with blue eyes, Dean's, Millennium, is a maltese(blue) tiger with green eyes, and Adam's is a black panther cub named Bagheera.   
> In this verse, bonded sentinels and guides can see each other’s spirit guides, and some stronger unbonded individuals can also see them, while others, such as John, can sometimes hear them but not see them.


End file.
